


wake up and smell the coffee

by peter_parkerson



Series: badthingshappen bingo [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Dissociation, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Endgame, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers-centric, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Is In Therapy, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 21:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peter_parkerson/pseuds/peter_parkerson
Summary: "Hey, Cap," Tony says, and all eyes turn to him. "You usually have an opinion - a wrong opinion, but an opinion nonetheless. What's your take?"Steve doesn't turn his head. Doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.Huh. Okay.Across the room, Sam Wilson leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and says, "Steve? You alright?"Still nothing.Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This just in - Steve Rogers,theSteve Rogers, has issues just like the rest of them.Badthingshappen Bingo Prompt Fill: Dissociation.





	wake up and smell the coffee

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back on my prompt bs folks
> 
> title from “come out and play” by billie eilish

Generally speaking, Avengers meetings are not boring.

 

It's kind of hard for meetings to be boring when everyone on the team is constantly clashing, constantly butting heads on any and every issue. The arguing is annoying, to say the least, but Tony is beyond used to it at this point. He's come to expect it.

 

This time is no different. They haven't gotten to the yelling yet -  he's sure they will eventually - but they've been going back and forth for the past half hour and nobody has been willing to compromise.

 

Oddly enough, the de facto leader - Captain Freedom himself - has been silent.

 

Tony doesn't notice at first. There's so many voices in the room that the lack of one doesn't register very easily. But there's only so much senseless squabbling he can take, and Rogers generally drags the team down from the ledge.

 

"Hey, Cap," Tony says, and all eyes turn to him. "You usually have an opinion - a wrong opinion, but an opinion nonetheless. What's your take?"

 

Steve doesn't turn his head. Doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.

 

Huh. Okay.

 

Across the room, Sam Wilson leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and says, "Steve? You alright?"

 

Still nothing.

 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This just in - Steve Rogers, _the_ Steve Rogers, has issues just like the rest of them.

 

Because Tony knows what this is. Even if the other don't recognize it right off the bat, Tony does. He's been in Steve's place more than enough times to know when someone is dissociating and Rogers has clearly lost it. The only question is just how far gone he is.

 

Judging by his complete and utter lack of reaction when Natasha waves a hand in front of his face, he's pretty far gone.

 

Well. Tony can handle this one.

 

Not to brag, but this _is_ his area of expertise.

 

"Guys, guys, hey." Tony looks between Sam and Nat, because he knows that they trust him as an Avenger but that doesn't mean they trust him with Steve. He's just glad Barnes is out on mission right now so he doesn't have to deal with his overprotectiveness too. "I can handle this one - been there, done that, got the t-shirt, y'know?"

 

Nat nods pensively. Sam just squints at him.

 

Tony rolls his eyes and tries his best not to look too gleeful (Captain Perfect has a flaw! A _flaw!_ And not only that, it's a _mutual flaw!_ ) as he moves to Steve's chair.

 

It's entirely possible that the method he knows won't actually work. The two of them manage to be incompatible on pretty much everything else, so it's entirely possible that what works for Tony won't bring Steve any closer to Earth. But nobody else has stepped up to the plate yet, and Tony's default philosophy is, in fact, _what would Rhodey do?_

 

Rhodey's the one who usually talks people (Tony, sometimes Barnes, occasionally Bruce) down from these sorts of things, but he's busy being an Air Force Colonel so it's Tony's turn now.

 

Tony kneels down next to Steve's chair. "Alright, Stevie. How d'you feel about joining us back in good old reality?"

 

Steve's gaze stays locked on a random spot on the wall. He's tense, practically rigid, and Tony wonders if it's this disturbing when _he_ dissociates.

 

No touching until given permission. No loud noises. No panicking. No added stress.

 

"Everyone, get out," Tony says, careful to keep his voice low. There's a noise of protest and he shoots a glare at Sam. "The more people are around, the more stressful it'll be for him. I've got this, alright? Go away. _Quietly_."

 

A long moment passes in which no one moves. Some of them are clearly reluctant to leave him alone with Steve, while others just keep looking between him and Sam like they're watching a tennis match.

 

Natasha puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. An entire conversation seems to pass between them in the space of five seconds, despite not a word being spoken; after, Sam gives a begrudging nod, throws one more look to Tony that says _fuck this up and we're going to have a problem,_ and walks out with Nat at his side. Everyone else shuffles out after them.

 

He's sure they'll all be standing right outside the door, but he'll take it.

 

"FRIDAY, dim the lights by 40%." Not enough to plunge them into darkness, but enough to ensure it’s not accosting Steve's senses. "Okay. Alright. Steve, buddy, you're dissociating. I know you're not really processing anything right now, but we're gonna fix that, yeah?"

 

In most cases, Tony is way too out of it to catch the specifics of what Rhodey says until he's already come halfway back down, but he knows the gist.

 

Narrate everything. Tell them who they are, where they are, what's going on, and anything else you can think of. Give them simple statements, basic facts to latch onto. Assure them that they're safe and that you want them to come back.

 

Once they've regained partial awareness, walk them through a coping exercise. Engage their senses, engage their brains. Make them interact with not only you, but also their surroundings. Repeat as many times as necessary for them to find their way back to reality.

 

"Your name is Steve Rogers," Tony starts, entirely more gentle than he thinks he's ever spoken to Steve. The next logical step is his age -  a quick calculation tells him that Steve, at this point, is exactly 102 years old, if they're including the time he spent in the ice, and...Jesus fucking Christ, that doesn't exactly seem like the thing to bring up. Instead, he says, "It's Tuesday, October 6th, 2020. You're Captain America. You're an Avenger."

 

He could be imagining it, but Steve's eyes do seem to deglaze, just a little.

 

Steve's story is a fucking minefield, though. Especially when he's not even sure what triggered this episode, if anything, so he doesn't know what pieces of information would end up making it worse instead of better. And if he makes it worse, Sam will come for his kneecaps.

 

"You're at the Avengers tower, in the conference room. You're sitting in a chair. I'm - Tony Stark is talking to you." Steve's fingers curl on top of the table. Progress. "I'm gonna keep talking to you until you can understand what's going on. You're safe. It's just the two of us in here. I'm not going to hurt you; I won't even touch you unless you say it's okay. I need you to come back to me, though, if you don't terribly mind."

 

Would cracking jokes make things more real for Steve or would that be in bad taste?

 

Bad taste, he decides. "We miss you back in reality, man. We were trying to come up with a plan for our next mission and we could really use your input. I know it's a lot, but you'll be alright. I'll be right here, Steve. You're okay."

 

Steve blinks quickly, the haze that had settled over his face clearing just enough to confirm that Steve is, in fact, still in there. Tony watches him glance around, gradually beginning to recognize his surroundings.

 

Eventually, his head turns to Tony, eyes darting over his face. His brow furrows as if he's not quite sure who he's looking at. Voice strangely hoarse, he says, "Tony?"

 

Tony gives him a bright smile. "Yep, you got it. How ya feeling?"

 

"I...huh?"

 

"Yeah, alright." Never in his life did Tony think he'd see Captain Eloquence so incoherent. "I'm gonna need you to do something for me, Cap. I need you to look around and give me five things you can see, okay? Can you do that for me?”

 

Steve is practically swaying in his chair, but he does as told. “Uh...the - the table. You. The chairs.”

 

He talks slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him. There’s pauses between phrases, between words, almost between syllables. It’s hard to watch, especially as someone who’s had to do this exact exercise God knows how many times.

 

Jesus. Tony’s been putting Captain America on a pedestal for so long that he forgot there’s a man underneath the ridiculous costume. Underneath the star-spangled facade.

 

He can’t forget anymore, because this - this right here is so irrevocably, irrefutably human.

 

"The glass," Steve continues, making a vague, half-assed gesture toward the glass of water in front of him. "The water...thing."

 

In _any_ other context, Tony would snort at that. As is, the new official Avengers term for a water pitcher is _water thing._ Patent pending.

 

"Good, that's great, Steve." His knee is starting to hurt from kneeling. He ignores it. "Now, four things you can touch, yeah?"

 

"The table," Steve says again, after a moment. His left hand pats around while his right comes to rest on his thigh. "My, uh, my jeans."

 

The hand that's roaming around finds the front of Tony's AC/DC t-shirt and clutches tightly. Tony stiffens - he always does when anyone who isn't Rhodey, Pepper, or Peter touches him without warning - but he lets Steve have this. “Your shirt.”

 

Steve releases his shirt and then _immediately_ drops his hand right on top of Tony’s head. It takes everything he has not to flinch, breath hitching and both hands curling automatically into fists. He thinks Steve speaks, giving the last thing on his list as _your hair,_ but he’s a little preoccupied.

 

The hand leaves his hair, but the instinctual fear lingers.

 

Fuck. _Fuck,_ he can’t do this right now. He can’t panic right now. Steve needs him to be here, fully here, and to be calm and collected and _not having a fucking anxiety attack because someone touched him._

 

His fingernails dig into his palms as he inhales (one, two, three, four), holds (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven), and exhales (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). Repeats. Then repeats again. All the while, he can hear Rhodey’s voice in his head, coaching him through it.

 

He’s okay. Nobody’s trying to hurt him. He’s safe.

 

“Three things you can hear,” he tells Steve, once his breathing has evened out. He’s gotten good at this, the whole _fending off a panic attack_ thing. “You’re doing really well, Steve, just a couple more, alright? Three things, go.”

 

Steve’s fingers tap, absently, against his knee. “Your voice. It’s...annoying.”

 

Tony barks a surprised laugh. Steve’s tone is still bordering on blank, but a hint of a smile crosses his face, making it clear that he’s just teasing, even when he’s barely coherent.

 

“My breathing,” Steve says. “And, uh - there’s a...bird. Outside.”

 

So there is. 

 

 _We’re getting there,_ Tony thinks. He’s not sure if he’s surprised that this is working or not.

 

“Fantastic. Now, two things you can smell.”

 

Steve’s breathing is starting to quicken. Typical, really, that they’d both end up on the edge of a panic attack within two minutes of each other. Dissociation and anxiety attacks really do go hand-in-hand, he supposes. He makes no move to touch Steve, still, just places his hand on the table, palm up, and leaves it there.

 

As hoped, Steve slips his fingers into Tony’s and squeezes and _holy fucking shit, that hurts, does Steve not realize that he needs that hand?_ Tony can’t stop himself from wincing this time, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway, blissfully unaware that he’s cutting off Tony’s circulation.

 

Which is fine. Totally fine. Tony’s had worse, after all. And it appears to be helping Steve, so there’s that.

 

But _God,_ Steve is strong.

 

(It’d be kind of hot if it was...literally anyone else. Steve is attractive, conventionally speaking, but it’s still a hard pass.)

 

“I can smell coffee.”

 

Full sentences now, huh? Sure, it was only four words, but at least those four words didn’t have choppy pauses between them.

 

“Last but not least, Cap - one thing you can taste.”

 

The answer comes in short order this time, weirdly enough - this part is always the one that takes Tony the longest. “Mint.”

 

Makes sense. Steve drinks mint tea constantly. At meals, at meetings, at random intervals throughout the day. Tony’s gotten so used to the smell of mint in the compound kitchen that he doesn’t even notice it anymore; he’d thought it was annoying until he realized that Steve uses mint tea the same way Tony uses stress balls.

 

Steve’s grip on Tony’s hand loosens, ever so slightly. He looks...clearer. Sharper. Solid.

 

He looks, finally, like Steve Rogers.

 

Tony taps his thumb against Steve’s knuckle and asks, “You with me?”

 

“Yeah, I’m with you.” He runs his free hand through his hair, then wraps his arm around his torso. “Uh - thanks, Tony. Did I…hold up the meeting?”

 

“Yes.” He sees no point in lying. “But it’s no big deal. We can figure out how to save the world later.”

 

Steve hums vaguely, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

 

Tony’s knee is still aching. He lets go of Steve, trying his best to be discreet as he shakes out his hand, then stands and moves to hop up onto the table. Kicks his feet against the carpet and says, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

 

“No,” Steve says bluntly.

 

Damn, okay. Not what he was expecting, but...also not surprising when he thinks about it. This is Steve he’s talking to, after all.

  


On the list of who’s most to least likely to talk about their problems, Steve is pretty low. Below Peter, but above Natasha, Tony thinks.

 

In all honesty, it’s hard to get anything out of anyone on the team. Whether it’s trust issues or secret agency or just an unwillingness to ask for help, most members of the Avengers have a shit-ton of unresolved issues. Including himself, but at least he’s working on it.

 

Steve, on the other hand, seems to have no interest in dealing with his shit.

 

It’s not Tony’s problem. Not on a personal level, at least. He’s not Steve’s therapist. All things considered, he’s barely even Steve’s friend.

 

But Tony knows firsthand how bad things can get when nobody’s forcing you to talk about your problems (the memories of his birthday party are blurry, but he distinctly recalls shooting watermelons out of the air with his repulsor), so with his infamous birthday party in mind, Tony says, "That's cool. If you don't wanna talk, then fine."

 

Steve narrows his eyes. "There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

 

" _But_. In my experience, not talking never works. I've tried it. It sucks. I get it if you don't want to talk to me, but you should talk to someone, if you aren't already. Sam or Nat, maybe. Or a therapist."

 

"I don't need a _shrink_ , Tony."

 

Tony holds up his hands, placatingly. “It’s your choice. Just - it’s not the 1940s anymore, Steve. Going to therapy doesn’t make you weak. If you need help, it’s okay to ask for it.”

 

It took a long time for him to realize this. He’s been in therapy off-and-on for seven years now, and he probably should’ve started years before that. But he knew that, with how public his life is, as soon as he stepped foot into the office, everyone and their mother would know that Tony Edward Stark was seeing a therapist.

 

Eventually, though, the need outweighed his worry about his image.

 

He half expects Steve to brush him off. After all, Tony brushed off Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy’s first few vague mentions of therapy. And then their next few _pointed_ mentions of it. It wasn’t until the anxiety attacks started that he even _considered_ it, and then it was still months after that before he actually went to his first session.

 

Steve doesn’t brush him off. Not really, anyway. Slowly, he asks, “Does it work for you? Has it helped?”

 

“Yes.” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I go once a week, my therapist is brilliant. She could probably recommend someone for you, if you want.”

 

“Right…” Steve’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I - look, Tony, I’m not really a therapy kind of guy. I’m glad that it works for you, but I don’t think the whole ‘talking about it’ thing is for me.”

 

Ah. So he _is_ being brushed off.

 

Still not surprising. Though when you’ve seen aliens come out of a portal in the sky, accidentally created a robot intent on destroying the human race, and watched your pseudo-son crumble to dust in your arms, nothing is really surprising anymore.

 

“What set this off?” Tony asks.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The dissociation, I mean.”

 

Steve gives him a blank look. Jesus fucking Christ.

 

“The - this - the thing that literally just happened. When you were physically here but your brain checked out? That’s called dissociation. And judging by how unconcerned you are about it, I’d say it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

 

“Oh, that,” Steve says, like the self-satisfied bastard he is. “It’s just zoning out, it’s not a big deal.”

 

Is he fucking serious? He can’t be fucking serious.

 

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Tony says.

 

Steve just tilts his head and blinks up at him. Tony can't tell if the nonchalance is an act or if he's actually being serious. "Why...not? It's really not a big deal, it happens all the time."

 

He's going to have an aneurysm. That's it, he's calling it. This isn't real.

 

He _knows_ Steve. He _knows_ this goddamn nerd has done his research. He _knows_ that Steve knows exactly what he's talking about.

 

Steve has to know this isn't normal. He has to.

 

"You do know," Tony says, "that that statement is not helping your case, right? It's not just zoning out, and it's sure as hell shouldn't happen 'all the time'. I should know, it's one of the many things I'm working on in therapy."

 

"The fact that it's a problem for you doesn't mean it's a problem for me." Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. Tony is so close to choking him. "It's just stress. Being the leader of the Avengers is stressful."

 

Just because he can, Tony says, "Mm, I wouldn't say you're the _leader_ , per se."

 

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. "That's not even the point, Tony."

 

He's aware. The point is that Steve is totally, completely, 100% fine and does not need help of any kind. Which is the biggest load of bullshit Tony's ever heard. He wonders if Steve has said this to anyone else and actually had them believe it. There’s no way in hell Sam “I run a PTSD support” Wilson would’ve bought it.

 

Dissociating as a reaction to stress is neither normal nor healthy. It's exactly the kind of thing that people are supposed to get help for.

 

Clearly, Steve doesn't want to hear it. At least not from Tony.

 

Fine. But Tony will definitely be keeping a closer eye on him - he's seen too many people spiral into nervous breakdowns (including himself, more than once) to ignore Steve's blatant mental instability, even if Steve himself is content to ignore it.

 

Hm. Maybe he should talk to Sam. Compare notes.

 

"Tony." Steve flicks Tony's knee. Tony's left eye twitches. "Don't worry about me. I'm alright. And if I ever think I'm not, I'll ask for help, okay?"

 

 _No, you won't,_ Tony thinks. Because he's Steve Rogers and, in Tony's experience, Steve Rogers is never one to ask for help.

 

"Okay," Tony agrees. "I'm here if you ever need to talk."

 

And he leaves it at that, because he knows that pushing further won't do anything. Because he'll be here when Steve finally reaches his breaking point.

 

Maybe (hopefully), Steve will see himself spiraling before he actually crashes. But the likelihood of this, apparently, is pretty slim.

 

So when Steve inevitably falls apart, Tony will be there, right alongside the rest of the team, to pick up the pieces.

 

"You can call the others back in now. And, uh - thanks, Tony. Really."

 

Tony says, "No problem," and gets up to go find the team.

 

All the while, he's thinking, _Don't thank me yet._

 

_The hard part hasn't even started._

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://peter-parkerson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
